


Constants and Variables

by YacHaer



Category: BioShock Infinite, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dystopia, Heavy Angst, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YacHaer/pseuds/YacHaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originaly hired to find a mysterious man, Thomas Durin, aka Thorin, private detective, was not expecting to be sent in the underground city of Erebor, a prosperous and peaceful town kept away from the world's turmoil. But behind the appearance, the city has a much darker side, and soon the haven turns into hell. If he wants to survive and get his job done, Thorin will have to fight and disclose secrets he had no idea he kept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.  
> So this is the first chapter of a story I am working on since september.  
> As English is not my mother tongue, I apologize for the mistakes or gallicisms you may encounter during your reading. I'm still looking for a beta-reader, so if you are interested, do not hesitate to contact me. Every advice is most welcome.  
> You can also join me on my tumblr :  
> http://yachaer.tumblr.com/  
> See ya and have fun.

“Thomas?... Do you dread death?”

“No… But I dread yours…”

*

“What is called remembering a being is in fact forgetting it.”

_Within a budding grove_ , Marcel Proust, 1919

*

“Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future”

Oscar Wilde

 

_Rocky Mountains, 1912_  


“Remind me, why am I supposed to be the one rowing?” the young man complained loudly, almost shouting to cover the howling of the bitter wind and the furious rasping of raindrops on the surface of the lake.

“I will give you two reasons: because you’re much better than me at that, and because you could use some physical exercise.” the other replied just as loudly.

Thomas Durin – also known as Thorin for his very few friends…well, in fact, only by his younger sister these days – should have known that all of this was a terribly bad idea, and this from the very beginning. More precisely when the old man had pushed his door open and had offered him this bloody job. He should have known better: when an absolute stranger hires you, out of the blue, to find some random bloke and reminds you not to forget your gun, you can be sure that no matter what you are expected to do, it won’t be a walk in the park, even if you are a professional private detective with many years of expertise behind you.

He would remember the man a long time, that was for sure. These icy knowing blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles, his neatly trimmed grey beard, as grey as his bushy eyebrows, his mane of hairs, and even his suit. During his whole interview with Thomas, he had smoked and distractedly played with his umbrella or his bowler hat. The very instant that Thorin’s eyes had met his slender frame, he had wrinkled his nose and had known that the man was bad news.

Why had he accepted to get tangled in this: coming to the mountains with little to no information about what he is supposed to look for? He couldn’t actually bring himself to remember, even for the life of him. On the other hand, he could hardly say he had any choice…

“ _Bring us the man and wipe away the debt_ ”

Yeah, the debt. That bloody debt. That was the source of all his problems recently and reason of his being stuck in this predicament. That was why he was sat in that bloody boat, bathed in the light of its bloody dangling beacon on the bow, that bloody stormy evening and with those two young and silly men dressed with obnoxiously bright yellow waxed jackets and hats and talking nonsense. If he had not bet on horses and lost so much that he couldn’t even afford a good old glass of whisky to drown his misfortune and unhappiness, he would not be there, lost in the middle of nowhere, raindrops rolling on his cheeks like cold tears.

“Nonsense! You really disappoint me, my dear brother, I dared hope that you could do much better than this poor excuse for a reason! I think I deserve a little bit of creativity and a genuine intellectual effort, if I am to row alone.”

“Alright, you’re the one rowing, because it was your idea coming here in the first place.”

Thomas groaned out of exasperation, he was growing tired of this foolish bickering. He only wanted his job done, his soaked cloths changed for dry ones, and then to go back to New York, get his money and forget about all of this thanks to his old friend: whiskey. Sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it? So why couldn’t it work smoothly for once? Why everything he got involved into had to go south?

“Excuse me!” he mumbled, rather rudely interrupting the young men. “How much longer?”

The closest of the two men turned toward him, an hint of irritation perceptible in the gesture, and handed him dismissively a varnished wooden box on which was incrusted a copper plate which read “Property of Thomas Durin, 7th cavalry, Wounded Knee”. Oh, no…Wounded Knee. It was not exactly the best moment to reminisce and mope, he was here with a mission to fulfil, he couldn’t get drunk and lock himself away in his office. However, he couldn’t help himself wondering if he would someday be allowed to get rid of those cursed memories and find a semblance of peace of mind? Besides, what was this bow doing between his hands, he was almost sure of having burnt everything related to Wounded Knee?

“You brought us here in spite of my warnings, and against my better judgment, you somehow managed to talk me into this. Therefore you deserve rowing.” The man said as he turned back to his companion.

“You know why we are doing this, though. Mistakes and faults shall be corrected and amended,” the one rowing whispered, his voice low and serious.

“Every mistakes and faults _cannot_ always be corrected or amended” the other snapped sternly. “The best we can do is learning from them.”

Receiving no answer to his question, Thomas sighed and opened the box which contained only a few tinkers: two keys, one golden, the other silvery, a faded postcard showing a massive golden statue hitting an anvil with a hammer, a piece of paper on which a few ciphers were scribbled with a tiny handwriting and the poor photograph of an elegantly dressed man.

Thomas picked the photograph and scrutinized it carefully; it must be his “client”. It looked like a stolen picture as it was a three-quarter portrait taken slightly from above, and the eyes of the very handsome man it pictured were looking away from the camera. Well…In fact, saying that he was handsome was not doing him justice at all; Thomas must admit that he found him really striking with his childlike curly light locks and his dark gaze, although he found the thin moustache dusting his upper lip, the mincing beige suit, the crisp white shirt and the grey bowtie tied around his collar too snooty for his liking. The man was clearly too fancy for him, which was really a shame, as he was clearly his type: he looked at the same time kind of fragile and melancholic but something in his physiognomy hinted a fierce temper and the hidden bravery of his heart. He upturned the picture to discover on its back the name of the man: “William B. B ~~o~~ aggins. Bring unharmed to New York”. He stuffed the papers and the keys in his pockets and closed the box which he all but dropped on the bottom of the boat.

“So you do not believe in the success of our experiment?”

“I am so sorry to disappoint you, brother dear, but scepticism is the grounding of science.”

“As if I was not aware of that.”

“In any case, I only agreed because I am interested in the results, which promise to be quite fascinating, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, although you know that is not my main interest in the matter.”

“I did not know you that sentimental.”

“I am not. I am only responsible. Going back to rowing, I would really like you to help me a bit”

“You should rather ask him” the other man sighed, pointing Thomas with a gloved thumb. “He is much less of a weakling and much more interested in getting there than us. He would take us there in no time.”

“I suppose so, but asking would be pointless.”

“Hmm? ...Why not?”

“Because we are almost arrived.”

From across the dark shroud of rain and mist, Thomas could descry the shape of a wooden hovel perched on the rocks of a lonely island. Island was a very generous statement, it was more a pebble than an island and the shack was barely less miserable: if Thomas believed in God, he would have though miraculous that it collapsed not under the assault of the vicious gusts of wind. However somebody was obviously insane enough to think it worth being a home as a flickering light was coming out of dusty, chipped-glassed windows. Thorin wondered who could be the lunatic living in a place such as this.

The boat reached a small jetty looking just as decrepit and rotten than the walls of the hovel, barely able to endure the pertinacious assaults of waves. As soon as he sat a foot on it, the wood moaned menacingly under the soles of his shoes, almost promising him to creak and throw him in the waters enraged by the storm, foaming and growling like a furious beast. Thomas gazed back at the men in the boat, their faces hidden by their oversized hats.

“Is somebody waiting for me in there?” he asked more anxiously than he intended to.

“I would hope so, if I were you, but one never knows,” the one rowing mischievously replied.

“It looks like the worst possible place to be stuck in tonight…and other nights as well, I would say.” The other added quite sarcastically.

“Shouldn’t we at least wish him good luck, brother?”

“Mmm, maybe not, it might distort the results.”

“At how many percent are you sure of that statement? I mean, have you made the computation?”

The sound of their conversation faded in the darkness of the night just as did the blurring shape of their boat. Thorin shook his head and heaved a deep sigh; those two were really out of their mind. Fortunately he forgot swiftly the absurdity of their babbling and focused on his goal: the man, William B. Baggins, as it was his name. Thomas walked carefully on the rotten laths of wood to the door of the hovel. Quite relieved that the scenarios he fantasized remained only fictional, he indulged himself a pause on the threshold of the door and then spotted a piece of paper nailed to the wooden panel. It read “No admittance, except on party business”. Well, it was rather puzzling, not really the kind of message one would expect to find on the door of a crumbling shanty. But there was something odd and unwholesome in those capital letters, the thin lines were disturbingly askew, of unequal length and written with a thick red ink. It displeasingly looked like a macabre threat.

Thomas slowly retrieved his gun from the holster hanging under his armpit, switched off the security, and pushed prudently the unlocked door open. The room was empty. A sole oil lamp set on a table cast some agonising light on the gloomy and moist walls. Thorin came in and quickly slammed the door behind him, muting the eerie hoot of the wind on the bleak valleys and between the dark pines.

His breath was ragged and burned his sore throat like would the air out of a furnace, and a sigh of relief escaped his lungs. In fact, he was half expecting to find a bloody corpse tied to a chair on the middle of the worn-out rug. Nonetheless he did not tuck his weapon back in its rightful place yet, he might not be alone for very long.

The shack was even smaller than he had expected, it only had a single room which was rather poorly furnished with a bed most certainly filled with bed bugs, a chest which hinges and lock looked rusted, and the table supporting the oil lamp. Charcoal was glowing red in the iron belly of a stove, cracking from time to time, and barely bringing an ounce of warmth between the four wooden walls rattled by the gales. From an old gramophone, the smooth voice of that pretty Irish girl of Broadway whose name was escaping Thorin was singing “May It Be”, while the wind was whistling along between the loose boards.

In that instant, cornered by the strange melancholy of this place and as strange as it might seem, Thomas truly missed New York, he missed the insanely high buildings, the din of the first automobiles sputtering in the loud streets, the crowd, the Hudson River. He wished he had never agreed to find that bloody guy with his curly hair and his fancy bowtie.

With a deep sigh, Thomas tucked the revolver back in his holster and looked at his livid reflection in a cracked mirror in front of him. He was almost afraid of himself: his soaked locks of black hair mixed with grey streaks were falling on his furrowed brow, his stern blue eyes – blue and cold like mountain lakes – were underlined by dark rings, even accentuating the sickly paleness of his skin. Furthermore, his bushy black droplets-full beard covered half of his face, only his sharp nose and cheekbones seemed to escape its wild opulence. He looked old (although he was only thirty-eight), irascible and dangerous, as if his incredible height was not intimidating enough, no wonder that he had no one in his life except his sister.

The hint of a smile curved his lips at the mere thought of Diana. Dissy was the only person in the whole world who kept him walking, she had given the strength to wake up the morning when he felt that he could make it. She had never judged him even though she had known what kind of dirty job he had been reduced to do at Pinkerton, before he could gather enough money to open his own agency. Thomas had genuinely no idea of what he would do without her constant support. However, although she must be an angel fallen right from the sky, she couldn’t make miracles and give her elder brother the face of a civilised man.

Thomas chassed his jet black locks from his brow and loosened the knot of his red neckerchief before wringing it, careless of the water dripping on the parquet floor, then he put it once again around the neck of his grey shirt whose sleeves where rolled to the elbow, baring his strong forearms. He unbuttoned his dark blue waistcoat and glared at the empty room. What in the world was he doing here? There was obviously no point in coming in an empty shanty…Though, somebody must have been here, otherwise there would be no light, no charcoal burning in the stove and no gramophone playing. Thorin squinted his clear and piercing eyes, his gaze roaming over the room.

Thorin finally noticed an iron ring slot in the floor of a darker corner. Of course, a trapdoor… Where was he, by the way? In a cheap adventure novel for young adults? A sarcastic rictus still crooking his mouth, he gripped the ring and turned the trapdoor on its squeaking hinges. Underneath was a short ladder which dived in the dank obscurity of a hallway. Charming and cosy. He grabbed the lamp and climbed down the ladder, groaning unhappily when his shoes met a slightly muddy

…Well, Thomas was not completely alone in the hovel, after all, although the other occupant, and obviously former owner of this dapper little house, was very unlikely to object to his presence in the shack since he was lying on the earthy floor, his back against one of the walls and the front of his shirt tainted in crimson. Thomas lowered the lantern to light the deadpan face swollen by punches earned during a visibly ferocious fight. He poked his leg with the tip of his shoe, just to be certain, but earned no reaction. The man could hardly be deader.

However, Thorin was pretty sure that the guy had not stuffed his breast with lead all by himself, someone must have given him a hand. His own hands were now gripping the butt of his gun and the lamp so tightly that his joints were turning white. He strode over the corpse with further ado to the elevator of what must be an abandoned mine. Thorin’s eyebrows furrowed when he noticed that its gate was locked by some kind of strange mechanism: a box –for no other word- sporting ivory rings lettered with tiny black cyphers on which one of the figures were pointed by a tiny copper hand. Thomas fished out of his pocket the piece of paper he picked in the box and compared the numbers on the paper and on the rings dubiously. It looked like some kind of combination to open the gate.

Alright, now Thorin was beginning to feel quite bewildered. He was hired to find a man, by an none less mysterious old man, before being sent on that rock by two strange fellas and now he was standing before what look like the elevator of a disused mine, a few meters away from the corpse of a shot-dead man. In what kind of predicament had he set a foot?

He spotted suddenly another piece of paper fastened to the iron bars of the gate.

“No all who wander are lost. Would you be lost, Mr. Durin?”

That was rather sarcastic given the circumstances and his current thoughts. Thorin glared at the piece of paper, swiftly noting that he was visibly expected, and ripped it from the gate, crumpled it, before setting the lamp on the ground and turning furiously the rings to reproduce the series of numbers on his paper.

However, once he is done with his task, nothing happens. Thomas checked if he had made any mistake, but he had done none. He exhales deeply, trying to cool off a bit and not let the anger and the frustration which boiled in his chest overwhelm him. It was a loss of time, since he soon hit the box with his clenched fist; usually a bad idea according to Dis. When a machine doesn’t work the fault is most of the time on the user, but somehow it proved his sister wrong and worked, something clicked inside the hidden mechanism –a cob, most likely, coming back to its rightful place- then a tiny bell rang and the cables supporting the cabin were set in motion. The gate opened with a metallic scraping on a cosy armchair covered with red velvet, exactly the kind of chair one could expect to find in that Palace of Versailles thing, and surely not in the elevator of a mine. However, in spite of the beautiful stuffing and the golden layers covering the wood, promises of both comfort and a regal guise, Thomas disliked its aspect. It must have something to do with the shackles on the arms and the feet of the piece of furniture, not exactly the most reassuring ornamentations ever conceived. No way he would sit in that damned thing.

“ _Bring us the man and wipe away the debt_ ”

Thorin swallowed laboriously, his mouth painfully dry. This mess would be his undoing. Nonetheless, in spite of the warning shouts of his instinct, Thomas took place in the seat and immediately, the shackles closed around his wrists and ankles and a light bulb switched on, on the ceiling of the cabin.

“Welcome, Pilgrim” a sweet reassuring feminine voice uttered, apparently from thin air. “Those shackles are needed to ensure your safety, do not try to remove them, please. Have you understood?”

At first, stunned, he did not try to wrestle against the steely ties, but his fierce reaction exploded very soon with the strength of the thunder.

“Let me go, you fu-” Thorin roared, looking at the ceiling, toward the unknown origin of the obnoxious voice.

“Good!” she interrupted him with her sweet inflections. “We will now proceed to your descent to the Kingdom of Mahal. Prepare yourself, Pilgrim. In three, two, one…”

“Wait a minute! What descent?!”

But before he could get an answer from the disembodied voice, he was falling. Falling and yelling, expelling all the air of his lungs, but the air whistling in his ears prevented him to hear his own terrorised shriek. He was falling at such an impossible speed that he felt his stomach rising up and he felt utterly sick for a fleeting moment, but he could not throw up, his throat – sore of shouting – was knotted so tightly that it just would not let that pass.

I ended as suddenly as it had begun – or maybe he had just passed out – and at Thomas’ utter surprise, with nor painful crash neither shattered bones. The cabin lost its momentum almost smoothly. As for Thorin, he was slumped in his chair, panting frantically, feeling as exhausted as if he had run a whole marathon. He was almost certain that he had broken his voice, roaring like he had and if the pain was any sort of indication. His heart was still pounding heavily against his ribs, just like he was trying to flee from its prison of flesh and bones and give up all this madness.

“You have come now to the end of your journey, Pilgrim,” the soft voice resumed. “Behold the magnificence of the City Under the Mountain. Welcome to Erebor.”

What Thomas Durin saw then stole his breath away: a city spread before his wide eyes, on the other side of bars. A city just nearly as huge as New York, with buildings as high as the highest skyscrapers, but all of this marvel was held in the room of an enormous cave. It was mad, and unbelievable, and, Thorin must admit it, utterly beautiful. The numerous slender buildings of clear stone glittered with bright green and golden lights like colourful crystal needles in the middle of the darkness. These lights was reflected on the many pounds and lakes where they shattered it into millions of sparkles of gold and emerald. Trains were meandering on elevated tracks and twined in the maze of those phantasmagorical streets, bridges, domes, belfries and terraces, like the sight loose its way in the motley windings of an iridescent kaleidoscope. And, slightly apart from the fabulous city chiselled in the rock of the mountains, on an island in the middle of a lake, a giant of brass stood, heaving his mighty arm and his hammer over a golden anvil inflamed by the lights of the city, like by the flames of a forge. The bearded face of metal of the statue was constricted by the utter concentration required for his demiurgic task, his golden eyes locked on the city facing him. Recognition dawned to Thorin, it was the statue depicted on the postcard safely tucked in his pocket. He must be kept there: William B. Baggins. This statue was his goal.

The elevator carried on with its descent and the voice her insufferable babbling.

“We genuinely hope that your journey has been the most comfortable and pleasant.”

“Allow me to disagree…” Thomas groaned hoarsely.

As they entered by its roof a building looking exactly like one of those elegant European train station, blending perfectly the clear stones of its walls, the glass of its roof and the steely beams of its framework. The speed kept declining, and the cabin entered in a light which bathed it with a soft warm golden glow.

“We hope that you will enjoy your stay in Erebor. You can find maps of the town, or lists of the best hotels and restaurants downtown at the station’s entrance. Good bye, and may Mahal bless you.”

The hellish machine finally stopped at the end of a long and narrow hallway and the gate opened accompanied by the light tinkle of a bell. The shackles loosened around his limbs and Thomas all but leapt from the armchair then out of the cabin. He peered dubiously at the smooth walls of stone lit by a long row of lantern hanging from the low ceiling then tread on the checker floor, his step echoing strangely in the tight corridor. He had no idea of what he might encounter and the end of the hallway, behind the taunting door in front of him. His hand slipped to the butt of his gun while the other reached the doorknob.

Suddenly, he froze, the tip of his fingers brushing the brass of the knob; a hint of hesitation had crept into his anxious mind and was now darkening it. What was he about to do? In what matter was he involving himself? A lonely cabin on the rock lost in the middle of a mountain lake, a dead body in its basement, an awful fall to the roots of earth inside an elevator and now an underground city? And for whose sake? Not even his.

“ _Seriously, Thorin, what on earth are you doing, buddy? I thought you were way more pragmatic and rational than that?_ ” he thought. “ _So why are you keeping going on while you still have the opportunity to turn around and go back to the surface, forget about all of this and find another way to repay your debts. That’s insane and you know that. All of this stinks and surely you don’t want to meddle in things which might be baneful to you.”_

Thomas’ thoughts whirled like a maelstrom under the osseous layer of his skull.

_“You don’t want to die, right? Nobody wants to die, you’re fully aware of that, aren’t you? Sure, your life is not exactly what you were dreaming of when you were a kid. Right, knowing that your hands are stained with the blood of innocents makes you sick of yourself each time you meet your own reflection in a mirror. Sure, you are thirty-eight, single, you still live with your little sister because you wouldn’t survive a week if you were to be left on your own and it is very unlikely to change since you will never marry a woman, simply because women are not your cup of tea, are they? You are pathetic, moody and despicable, and the world would be a way prettier place without you around. Nonetheless, you want to live. As absurd and laughable as it may be, you still want to live, so what are you waiting for? Run away from this damned place, while you still can, and screw the guy locked in the statue, and screw the old nutcase who hired you! Yes, it is cowardice, but you have plenty the right to be a coward as everybody is coward, so it is not really cowardice. Besides, they seem to live quite well with it. Oh yes, Thorin, you will feel guilty and selfish, but at least you will feel something. And think a bit of Diana –or Dissy, whatever – she and you have already lost Frederic, poor, brave Frederic. How could she survive the loss of her two elder brothers?”_

Thomas wanted to leave, he really wanted to. But his hand tightened its grip on the doorknob, as if his own body was refusing to flee, as if a part of himself was _refusing_ to run away. He gathered all the bravery and calm he still had, then turned the knob and opened the door.

Well, there was actually nothing extraordinary in the deserted room behind it. No ranks of soldiers waiting for him, their rifles already in their hands, ready to shoot him down, no scaffold to hang him. It was extremely spacious and luxurious, all of white marble and glass, open spaces and majestic stairs. Thomas let his gun go, relaxed a tad and let the breath he was holding blow from his breast. He closed quietly the door behind him and strode to a stairway when he heard someone calling for him.

“Dammit, I’m not here for a minute and I’m already spotted,” Thorin muttered to himself.

“Sir!” the masculine voice called him once again.

Thomas pivoted on his heels reluctantly; it would be better not to cause too much ruckus yet.

“Yes, can I help you?” Thorin hissed between his teeth, like a snake ready to bite.

“It would rather be me asking this to you, sir. You are a newly-arrived pilgrim, aren’t you?” The man chuckled.

Thomas’ eyes roamed all over the man face and cloths. He wore a very sharp blue uniform closed by bright brass buttons and accompanied by a cap embroidered with a crown under seven stars. The least that Thomas could say was that he wasn’t neither very tall nor looking strong, if he judged it necessary, Thorin could doubtlessly overpower him effortlessly and hide his body in some random dark corner, besides he looked rather harmless with his genuine smile, his steel-rimmed glasses.

“Sir?” he asked again.

Thomas reminded himself that a normal human being was supposed to give an answer. Lying and trying to deny what was surely obvious to the other man’s eyes was certainly the least wise decision to take and would bring him more trouble than it was worth.

“Yes. Yes, I have just arrived from the surface.”

A brighter smile lit the already cheerful face.

“Ah, I knew it. If you are looking for the platform, it is the other way, unless you want to get lost in the cave.”

“Of course not,” Thomas replied, faking quiet convincingly an amused chuckle. “I was lost in my thought, I was not paying attention to where I was going, thank you, sir.”

The man puffed proudly his chest before offering Thomas to show him the way. So accompanied by the gleeful little man, Thorin headed to the platform which was on the exact opposite way. If not for the train controller, no doubt that Thomas would have lost himself, twice.

“You brought a gun with you?” the other man remarked, all of the sudden, pointing at the weapon tucked in its holster.

Chill ran in Thorin’s veins, frizzing the blood in his body. How stupid and careless of him! Was he out of his mind? He was on a mission requiring both discretion and carefulness and he was already making mistake after mistake by walking around with his revolver for everyone to see. He was not supposed to be a rookie anymore, dammit!

“Don’t look so anxious, my friend, you’re in no trouble at all,” the man laughed, patting friendlily Thomas’ stiff shoulder, while his smile was widening. “In fact, I find it was pretty wise of you to do so. One never know what he might encounter in the darkness of the caves. Don’t give me wrong, Erebor is surely the safest city in the whole wide world, but even here, there are trouble-makers.”

“Good to know.” Thorin muttered, thinking that in a short while, he would likely be branded as “trouble-maker” himself.

“But don’t worry, those cockroaches are no match for our leader,” the man claimed proudly, as if he was talking of someone from his own family. “He will crush them under his boot like the ants they are.”

Thorin frowned once the train controller’s were not looking at him anymore. The little harmless man was talking with such passion, almost fanatically of his leader, as if he was an angel come from the heaven to slay a malicious dragon with a golden spear, an aureole of light around his head. He found it utterly uncanny and he wasn’t really keen on digging in that direction for the time being, although it was very unlikely that he would manage to avoid the matter forever. He had the odd feeling that he should be faced to the strange enthusiasm of the people of Erebor toward their mysterious leader very soon.

To Thomas’ utter relief, they finally reached the platform and he hastily bade goodbye to his guide, not before receiving a warm pat on the shoulder and the best wishes ever made. The platform was almost desert apart a few men, all sporting black stains of soot or coal dust on their exhausted faces and sleepy eyes longing for a long and peaceful slumber. These must be miners of workers in a foundry.

Thorin bought a ticket at the office and then wandered seemingly casually while waiting for a train supposedly bringing him to the fair city of Erebor. His blue eyes roamed over the crowd of workers quite suspiciously, always expecting one of them to spring toward him like one of those awful little devils popping out of boxes, grip his throat until the pallid veal of death covered his eyes. However, while his mind was seeking a possible foe amongst the poor worn out men, his gaze met a poster showing a hideous red sharp-clawed hand, ready to seize something and never let it go. The caption read in capital: “ _Beware the Burglar, for he only seeks to steal Erebor’s Arkenstone_. _You’ll recognize him by his brand!_ ” A shiver ran along Thomas’ spine, the hand sported raged scar forming the letters “B.D.” on its back, just like Thorin’s right hand. While pearls of sweat were beginning to dampen his forehead, he shoved his hand deep in the pocket of his black and white striped trousers, hoping that nobody had noticed his scars and with his free hand, he combed nervously his still damp hair. They were expecting him, they knew he was to come, whoever this who might be.

Thorin felt a tiny hand grab his left wrist and he almost jumped out of his skin, nervous as he was. Good job Durin, not suspicious at all. Gathering his shattered wit, he lowered his gaze to the grinning face of a boy clad in a little brown tweed jacket.

“Are you Mister Thomas Durin?” The lad asked.

“Yes, it happens to be me.” Thorin replied roughly, slightly annoyed of having been startled like a rabbit by a mere child.

“A telegram for you.”

The boy handed him an envelope of yellow paper, gave him a mock salute, and then disappeared as quickly as he had come, his smirk still hanging on his lips.

Thomas repressed an annoyed groan and distractedly ripped the envelope open.

“ _Dear Mister Durin STOP_

_We hope that your journey was most pleasant STOP_

_Do not let Oakenshield be aware of your presence and purpose STOP_

_No matter what happens, do NOT approach B. O. Fur STOP_

_You know what you have to do STOP_

_Good luck STOP_

_P. & K. London_”

Thomas scowled sombrely before stuffing the telegram in one of his pockets. How many people were aware of his presence in Erebor? He was supposed to be discrete and not attract the attention of anyone. He assumed that it was rather messed up now. Anyway, who were these Londons, by the way, and how could they even know about his being in Erebor and the reason of his coming? Why would they bother sending him a telegram? Were they trying to help him? And more importantly: who was this Oakenshield guy? Baggins’ gaoler?

Thomas snarled to himself. Oh, come on, use your brain, Durin! Whoever could he be, if Thomas had to keep him ignorant of his doings? He groaned like an angry bear as the questions were flooding his spirit. He retrieved the message from his pocket and read it a second time. It wasn’t more enlightening. At least he could give a name to his enemy now.

A shrill whistle warned the miners that the train was about to arrive and soon the deafening metallic racket of the iron wheels on the tracks sat the air in motion and vibrated in Thomas chest. The train stopped with an unpleasant screech which made the detective grind his teeth together and when the doors opened and the passengers came in, only Thomas remained on the platform. “This is it” he thought. “You are at a crossroad, Thorin. Either you turn around and leave, or you go find that man in his statue. But in any case, there won’t be any coming back and plenty of time for regretting it.”

Although, he still wanted to give up, a tiny part of him, buried far, far away in the deepest layers of his mind had a fierce desire to fight, an unbendable will to go find this man –William B. Baggins- set fire to the wondrous city at the other end of the railway and watch it burn. That is why he climbed into the train and closed sharply the door behind him. That is how everything had begun and how the first sparkles flared.


	2. The City Under the Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things : thank so much for the kudos and any other mark of support and sorry for this long gap between this chapter and the previous, the last few months have been quite eventful for me, but I'll try a keep a more regular pace from now on.  
> Anyway enjoy this new chapter.

“Mister Durin! Open this door, Mister Durin!”

Thomas was sitting at his desk, starring blankly at the amber whirls in his glass of whisky, oblivious of the loud knocks against the door of his office and the mad rattling of the doorknob, one of his cold hands holding the heaviness nestled behind the bone of his forehead. Why? Why was he doing this? What had he agreed to?

“We had a deal, Mister Durin! A deal! Give us the man and you will never hear of us again! Never!” the masculine voice kept shouting, unaware and uncaring of the ferocious pain burning Thomas’ brain.

“Go away!” he mumbled back, his voice hoarse and sounding desperate. He was drunk again, wasn’t he? “Just leave me alone…Please…I won’t do it…Please.”

“Give us the man and wipe away the debt!”

He felt his voice falter, almost breaking into a loud sob. He felt so febrile and his terrible headache was piercing his brow as if someone was driving screws in his brain, blood was pumping furiously, painfully, against his temples. His sight blurred slowly with unshed tears and his tiny hazy office was soon swallowed by the darkness of unconsciousness.

*

Thomas was awaken by a firm and calloused hand shaking his shoulder.

“Sir, wake up, we’re arrived in Erebor.” A rough and guttural voice said.

Thorin cracked an eyelid and glared grumpily at the miner standing next to him and then roamed over the empty wagon before settle once again on the man who awoke him.

“Thank you.” Thorin groaned gloomily.

The rocking of the train on its track must have lured him to sleep, not that it was surprising since he had not slept at all the last night, stuck he was in the boat. He stretched and repressed a yawn, as the worker walked away, letting Thomas on his own in his seat. He glanced through the nearest window only to see nothing but dark shapes lost in misty clouds of steam. How long had he slept and what time was it? During the descent, the city had not seemed that far away, he surely had not travelled and slept very long. An hour at most, judging by the sluggish feeling settled in his whole body and mind.

Thorin stood and climbed down from the wagon to the platform, everything was still bathed in a bright light which turned the mist into a cloud of golden dust. He looked down at his own bare hands and arms and he saw that even his pale skin looked warm and covered by the precious metal. It was so ethereal, as though he was floating in the waters of an ocean lit by the last rays of a setting sun, everything seemed more beautiful. He took a few steps and the exhaustion seemed to wash away from him, he felt weightless and his movements were so effortless.

He walked in awe along the platform, gaping at everything, and then he was in front of a huge arced gate framed by the gilded statues of two angels blowing in long and thin trumpets. Something was written in silver letters on the monumental frame of dark marble: _“Welcome to Erebor, the City Under the Mountain, blessed by Mahal.”_

Mahal, Thomas was almost sure that the voice in the elevator had mentioned it to, was that some kind of god? Was this city inhabited by heretics who believed in another deity? Oh, Thomas knew well that crossing with that kind of people was never the wisest thing to do; they usually have little tolerance for the outsiders and do not take kindly to people who showed hints of scepticism about their beliefs. He would have to be very careful of everything he would do or say, he was not particularly keen on being roasted like Joan d’Arc.

Suddenly, everything seemed to lose its magic aura, the light was duller and the silvery words engraved in the stone sounded heavily unwelcoming, but Thorin crossed the gate nonetheless, feeling crushed by the air around him, as if it was lead which was filling his lunges. Everything was darker now in the halls of the train station, the golden haze was gone and the large rooms, crowded by travellers of all kinds, were lit only by globes of glass hanging from the high ceiling. A large clock standing alone amongst this tide of people, like a lonely lighthouse in the middle of an enraged ocean, informed him that it was almost seven in the morning; he must have come back to Erebor with the night shift of miners, although workers were not the social class the most represented in the dim rooms.

Feeling slightly lost, Thomas followed accidentally successive waves of pretty ladies wearing richly embroidered dress and hat, while pearls, diamonds and other gems were glittering on their ears and fingers and fur or lace was lining their collars. Men were clothed with much less extravagance and fantasy, though the suits, the silky waistcoat, the ascot or tie was always accompanied by some smart accessory: a pin, the golden chain of a watch, a ring on one finger. Even the children wore beautiful trendy cloths and jewels. Thomas couldn’t believe it, everybody looked wealthy enough to afford such ridiculously luxurious outfits, he felt himself rather miserable with his waistcoat, his shirt and his neckerchief. Besides, the poor dirty miners were nowhere now to be seen, as though they had dissolved into the steam of the platform like sugar in a cup of tea. And now, instead of moping faces, all that he could see was joyful grin and excited features. And what were they so gleeful about? Was there some kind of celebration today?

As he was following the crowd toward the vestibule and was about to leave the train station, he suddenly froze. On the wall near the gate was a huge poster showing the profile of a stern old man and as soon as his eyes met the face printed on the paper, Thorin felt somewhat faint.

A vertigo rocked him as waves of shivers crept along his spine, rising the hair of his neck like the hair of wild startled beast, he felt a deep gape opening in the pit of his stomach and he threatened to fall on his knee as they buckled under his weight, as distraught as he was. But it was not fear that was making him falter and quake, no, it was some fleeting feeling of recognition and an imperious and overwhelming icy hatred. Hatred and rage. He knew that man, he didn’t know how, or where he could have met him, but he knew him and he hated him with every fibre, every cell of his body. He hated his blue piercing eyes and the long and thin line of his nose. He hated his full white beard and bushy eyebrows. He hated the small winkles on the corners of his eyes and his long mane of crisp white hair tied on the nape of his neck except of two braids dangling near his temples.

The muscles of Thorin’s jaw clenched so violently that he was sure that he was baring his teeth like a furious wolf. He might as well be frothing and snarling, but he couldn’t care less, the sight of this mere poster had set his soul on fire and he was blazing white right now. He didn’t even know why he was so furious, why his fingers were nervously clenching and unclenching at each of his sides, why he was feeling the urge of ripping that despised, roaring or hitting something or someone. What could that unknown man have done to him? What outrage deserved such an anger so powerful that it almost made Thorin sick?

He finally noticed that a caption accompanied the portrait, it read _“Blessed is our leader and prophet, Adam Oakenshield.”_ Oakenshield. So this was the leader whose praises were sung by the train controller and whom he had been warned against.

Thomas forced himself to breathe slowly; slowly and deeply. Fortunately it seemed that nobody had noticed his sudden outburst of frantic rage. He exhaled shakily, now freezing to his core. What was happening to him? Since he came to this city, he began to feel as if his body and soul were not his own anymore. He was lost, he was feeling things he wasn’t even supposed to feel and taking decisions so unlike those he was used to taking usually. It upset him utterly, he could not even recognize himself. It was true that he was temperamental, and that his outburst of anger were quite remarkable, but for all his moodiness, he had always known why he was furious and had a quantum of control on himself. Now he couldn’t even say that.

The only stable point, the only beacon remaining in the darkness and the confusion which was threatening to overflow his mind was that man, the man: William B. Baggins.

“Isn’t he handsome?” a low feminine voice said, beside him.

Thomas looked at the beautiful and tall woman dressed in white, surprised. He arched a brow and looked a second time at the poster.

“I suppose so.” He replied flatly. “If you like the mature kind.”

The lady chuckled, her clear and soft eyes filled with amusement.

“To you he might look mature, young man. But I still find him handsome.”

“Hum.” Thomas said curtly, as the woman flashed a mysterious smile.

“Today is an important day for him. For all of us, I should add: today is the twenty-second September and the thirty-fifth birthday of the Arkenstone.”

“The…Arkenstone?” he parroted, dead-pan, and the lady chuckled once again, but with not an ounce of malice, adjusting her hat and the twisted bun of fair hair underneath with a hand gloved with grey silk.

“You don’t know of the Arkenstone? My poor friend, where have you been living? The upper world?”

Thorin blushed slightly, she sounded just as sassy as Diana, though much less biting than his beloved sister. Thanks goodness, she was a handful already by her own, another specimen like her would have been the demise of mankind.

“The Arkenstone is the gem of Erebor, the very heart of the Mountain and our hope for even more prosperity.”

“You speak of it as if it was a person.” Thomas remarked drily, wondering if the woman was not making fun of him after all.

“But it is. The Arkenstone is a man. He has lived in the statue of our god Mahal, near the main lake, for fifteen years now. He is the most precious being in all Erebor for he holds our future in his hands, and he has much more worth for the Prophet. The Arkenstone is his beloved, his One.”

Thomas gaped at the woman, astounded. Had he heard properly, unless he had misunderstood her? Because there was no way she could speak so lightly about the love between two men. Only mentioning that kind of taboo in the most open-minded societies of New York was unthinkable. Some might accept these kinds of…relationship but none was to speak openly about it. It was not proper.

“I assume that it shocks you, judging by your expression of utter surprise. What in the love between two beings disturbs you?”

“Nothing.” Thorin claimed earnestly. “I just find…unusual that two men love each other this openly and that nobody seems fazed at all. If I were to express any kind of disapproval, I would say that maybe Mister Oakenshield is a bit too old to have a lover… ”

“How so? A loving heart never ages,” she offered wisely.

Thomas hummed non-committedly; something was bothering him, turning over and over in his mind. The lady mentioned the statue near the lake. It dawned to him but he needed confirmation.

“And has the gem of Erebor a name?” he asked tonelessly, trying not to sound to eager.

“William Benedict Baggins,” she answered with a soft and somewhat knowing smile.

Just as he suspected.

“Hum, he must feel quite lonely up there, in that statue,” Thorin said.

“Oh, but he is not alone. I don’t think he ever was.”

Thorin repressed a smug smile. She was telling him exactly what he wanted to know, the whole job might even prove to be way easier than expected.

“Although I doubt that he guardian is of the most talkative sort.”

His inner smile melt swiftly. A mute guardian…why was he finding the idea very unpleasant? 

“Oh my, it is getting late. Well, I am afraid that I shall leave you now, albeit reluctantly, I wouldn’t want to miss the beginning of the festivities, besides I am expected.” She announced most graciously.

“Oh, right, sorry for keeping you from your companions. And…Thank you for your enlightening explanations, Miss?” he said finally.

“Driel. My name is Galatea Driel. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he muttered in reply before she walked by and disappear in the crowd, a sibylline air still floating on her features like a veil.

Such a strange woman. Thorin could not bring himself to erase her smile from his retina, her words already committing in memories. She was so ethereally beautiful, gorgeous he dared say. But her eyes, clear and limpid like the water of a source, were piercing. Thomas almost felt like they could see past his skin, muscles and bones, to his very soul. Maybe she did…But…She hadn’t seemed surprised that he didn’t know anything about subjects such as Baggins, she had even answered his questions without much ado. Did she…Did she know anything as well?

Whoever this Miss Driel was, he really ought to be careful; he was beginning to wonder if half the city was not expecting him and was just waiting for him to drop the guard to stab him in the back. Well, he was becoming dramatic now, not a very good omen.

He shared another unfriendly glare with Oakenshield’s portrait, trying to smother the slight pang of jealousy which was sprouting in his chest. The man had the chance of being in love with a man without having to deal with the insults and prejudices which would go along with it anywhere else in the United States. He never had this unique chance, he always had had to hide this side of himself, terrified by the idea of that being disclosed.

He had fought it when he was younger, he had fought hard, spent so many nights lying awake in his bed, while sleep eluded him. The things he had done, trying to repress what he had thought being a sickness, a disgusting perversion… He had punished himself, cried, and tried to engrave in his flesh his atonement for this sin. His desperate prayers never received any answer, he had been forsaken, and from then he only felt hatred for himself and the world. And it had only got worse after Wounded Knee.

But, he couldn’t help it, but as much as he craved for it, he couldn’t allow himself to fall in love. He wouldn’t have cared if it was only for himself, but he had to think about Diana and how she would have reacted to such a revelation. He would never admit it, but Thorin was almost sombrely glad of having been hired to take Baggins away from Oakenshield: a man that old did not deserve such a handsome lover.

The flow of travellers was more tenuous now and Thomas was not feeling like drowning in an ocean of perfume, cloths and chattering. He had always found promiscuity rather unpleasant, it was a wonder that he had survived all this years in New York without losing his mind or assaulting one of his unbearably noisy neighbour. Living in a big city, well, why not, but not in New York, he was sure he would enjoy much more one of these European capitals: London, Vienna, maybe Amsterdam. Yes, Amsterdam. It would be nice coming back to his roots, as it was the hometown of his father’s parents, besides, they say it was a lovely city. All these canals, these houses of crimson bricks, that was indeed very taunting.

Yes, he would definitely retire once done with that case, he would take Dissy to Europe a start their lives anew other there, on new shores. Well, he will only have to recall himself of the few lessons of Dutch his grandmother had provided to him and his siblings.

But, as soon as he stepped out of the train station and that his eyes caught the incredible landscape spreading before his bemused eyes, his thoughts went quiet, and he lost himself in the void of darkness and light.

He was standing on a terrace suspended high above the gloomy waters of a small lake whose shores supported the foundations of high towers of dark stone, standing like the pillars of a monumental and primitive cathedral. Somewhat, they reminded Thorin of the stalagmites which could be found in the womb of earth, but their beauty had no comparison. They were all of high and arched windows brightly lit, of wide terraces and balcony with iron railings, of peaked roofs of slate, of copper caped domes and each and every one of this fantastic buildings were bounded by a tangled maze of bridges, terraces and staircases. He could even see –and it was the greatest of all the wonders he was staring at- neat gardens, trees and even parks, all of this greenery growing and spreading their begging branches under the bright light of powerful lamps, shining like underground suns. However, this was not the sole towers, others were standing above lakes, even in other smaller caves, standing islands of light in the middle of the darkness, and all bounded to others by aqueducts crossed by long trains. And, a bit isolated from the city stood the golden statue of that god: Mahal, as he was called. All of this was breathtakingly gorgeous and Thorin could not thank his luck enough for being alone and saving him from the slight shame of being caught gaping at the sight.

He took a few steps to the railing lining the terrace and noticed a pair of spectacles set on the smooth stone of the railing, as if they were waiting for him. He stretched hesitantly his hand toward them, seized them, then looked through the lenses. He drank every details of the city, and noticed things he was unable to seen with his bare eyes, as good as his sight was. He saw people pressing on the streets nestled between the buildings, he saw the sparkles of light on the precious metal of statues and the liquid glitter of some fountain’s water. A rocket exploded in the dark and tainted everything in scarlet, as a firework blossomed like a bouquet of fiery roses. The tone of bells rang on the walls of the caves, quickly followed by distant cheers and the sound of drums and music. It was with no doubt the biggest and most sumptuous birthday party ever celebrated. Thorin couldn’t wait to see the size and the icing’s colour of the cake.

And all of a sudden, Thorin spotted a large shadow crossing his sight, soaring through the air like a black shooting star. What the hell was that? He took off the spectacles and scrutinized the air, seeking the dark shape, but in vain. He looked back in the spectacles and roamed his gaze across the city, but an odd bitterness had replaced the awe and wonder, he had lost all enthusiasm. He had a job to do and he was surrounded by potential foes.

Then he looked slightly below his current position, to a bridge reaching the nearest set of towers, there a tall man in a beige suit was casually joggling with a teapot, spoons, a whole set of china cup under the appreciating and impressed eye of a shorter man, wearing an equally beige suit. Bewildered by such a dangerous and unusual behaviour, Thorin looked out of the lenses and he had to blink several times to convince himself that he was not seeing things, for the men were gone.

Thomas gaped at the void. The more he was stepping into Erebor, the more he wondered if he was not dreaming, or rather having a nightmare. He sighed raggedly, it was too late to turn back; he was committed now and retreat was not an option anymore, only one path remained. He walked away from the railing to the staircase leading to the bridge were he had seen the vanishing men, and still distraught by the strange phenomenon he witnessed, he strode carefully, half expecting a trap to open under the sole of his shoes and throw him in the dark waters of the lake. However, he reached the other side of the bridge without other disturbing event. In the sky, fireworks were still bathing the roofs with colourful flashes of light before falling into a rain of dying sparkles, but the sound of the explosion appeared much more distant to Thorin now, just like the smell of smoke and metal which was filling the air and his nostrils a few moments ago. The tight, though still brightly lit, streets were now very peaceful and even the passant looked quieter, casually walking on the neatly adjusted cobblestones and every now and then stopping to watch the content of a showing glass. The shops were just as modest and charming, almost quaint, it felt like a small typical town in the country with its bakery, butchery, flower shop and their signboards hanging on the façades. Thomas allowed himself to breath, a man passed by him and politely greeted him with a gracious gesture of the head and a smile. He replied in a similar fashion, albeit a bit rigidly, the respect –or even the slightest interest – of the etiquette had never been the most significant of his concerns. Every time he had ever tried so seem polite and well-mannered, he had felt –and had been – totally ridiculous, as laughable as a caveman dressed in a classy suit too tight for his muscled limbs. He tried to act casually and seem at ease, like a native Ereborian having a nice walk during a day of leisure and festivities. Honestly, he would hardly convince himself of that.

While he was striding in the streets and avenues, he noticed something quite intriguing: posters were abundant and omnipresent on the walls of the town. At the corner of almost every street, Thorin could see warnings against “The Burglar”, the same poster that he saw at the train station, or others. One of them showed a beautiful gem glowing an iridescent and soft light held by little and fragile hands. It read: _“Do not let the Burglar take Mahal’s miracle from us.”_ Mahal’s miracle? More than once, Thomas watched the poster with perplexity; he didn’t understand the whole religious iconography, however he could see that everything was too idealized, everything was shown either white or black, either good or bad, and there was no room for other shades: either one was Erebor’s friend, or its foe.

Tired, Thorin sat on a bench which towered a dark gape from under the soft light of a lamppost and behind the safety offered by a railing. Just in front of him stood another island of light and right behind the triumphant shape of the god Mahal glittered softly. A few meters away from him, two boys were playing with a dragon-shaped kite, making it dance in the damp air, and before he could wonder how on earth it could float without wind, a distant memory from his childhood surfaced.

It was summer, and the days were sunny and hot. Frederic and he were bored out of their mind and had a whole week long begged their father to help them make a kite, but each time they asked, they had received a more or less dry answer of refusal. He always had something more important to do, and they had been growing desperate from ever manage to spend a bit of time with their father, because that was the real purpose of the whole thing. But, an afternoon, while he was playing with Frederic and the still very young Diana, Thomas had seen his father come toward them with an unreadable expression plastered on his face. For a fleeting moment, he had wondered if one of them had done something wrong and if they would have to suffer on of these biting scolds that only he had the secret, but it had done nothing like that.  
He took from behind his back a hand-made kite. Thomas’ father had always been incredibly skilled with his two hands; if anything was broken, he usually managed to repair it with no time, giving it back as good as new. It was something that had fascinated Thorin during numerous years, and it brought him a lot of pride when he discovered that he had inherited this talent from his father.

Once their joy had diminished a bit, their father had brought them to a park to try the kite, and in all his memory, Thorin couldn’t find a happier memory: he was with his father and siblings, playing delightfully while their mother was sat in the shadow of a tree, looking at them. And the most incredible part was that it was still there: untarnished and whole, as bright as it was the day it happened. He couldn’t bring himself to feel a tad sad and nostalgic at the recalling.

A lazy smile spread on his lips, but then he turned his head and his eyes met the posters stuck on the wall next to him. His mile faded away slowly as he stared at them. These were different from the others, they were not divinizing Oakenshield, calling him the King, or the Prophet, or spreading warning against Thorin: the first showed the proud –Thomas would even say boastful– face of a fair-haired man sporting quite impressing bushy dark eyebrows over dark blue eyes. Everything in the aesthetic of the poster: the overwhelming red colour, the menacing wave of raised fists and flags behind the haughty leader, the disdain and unfriendliness he oozed with every pore of his skin, the open neck of his crisp white shirt and his shaggy mane of hair, everything felt revolutionary, dangerous and unstable. This man only wanted to see the high towers of Erebor fall for the mere pleasure and satisfaction of the challenge, it was plain to see, almost written on his face.

Clearly the man had every vice –or quality- required to be the perfect bogeyman that every tyrant in –or in that case, under– the world should have. How could possibly a sovereign keep the minds busy without some to hate and a hint of fear? _“Thranduil and the Lakemen, are not Erebor’s saviours, but its demise! Fight the warriors of anarchy!”_ Thorin couldn’t help but chuckle sarcastically at the poster, even Erebor’s scarecrow was trendy. Anarchists…Why not socialists? “Don’t make me laugh,” he though with an inner grin.

Though his grin vanished as his eyes slit to the other poster which sent a tide of shivers along his neck. It pictured a strange creature -or machine, he was genuinely unable to say- made of pieces of leather, iron and glass, which taken alone would seem shapeless, though put together, it looked like a dragon. Not a fairy tale dragon, mind you. No, a nightmarish humanoid beast armed with claws sharper than razors and teeth long like needles, its wide wings casted a menacing shadowy mantel over its unnaturally twisted body, unendingly long pipes sprouting here and there out of its armour of metal and leather like horribly protuberant veins and a long, long tail as thin and cruel as a whip trailed behind him. But the thing that really made Thorin shudder and look away from the dreadful creature were its eyes: yellow eyes without any pupil, smooth and shining like crystallised sulphur orbs. Its blind gaze focused on everything at the same time. Thomas remembered the shadow he had seen in the dark a bit earlier and his breath remained caught in his throat, had it been this horrendous thing? He earnestly hoped not.

He had seen and done many horrible things, things he was far from taking proud of. He had even killed, and even now, he felt little guilt, remorse or compassion for his past victims: some of them had deserved the treatment he had bestowed upon them, others were totally innocent and were nothing to him but collateral damages, regrettable casualties and little more than that. This kind of things happens every day, that’s unfortunate, no hard feelings? He had always done what he was asked to do, he was after all a mere executioner, a worker like another, and the blame for his deeds came to his employers, not to him.

None of his past actions haunted his nights or whirled in his mind like ink in a clear pool of water. Nonetheless, although he had been called brave or a good and capable soldier during his glorious years in army, he wasn’t sure that he could face the… thing without slightly shaking or that his bullets will succeed in piercing its armoured skin and flesh, and bringing it down.

_“Praise Smaug, the guardian of the Arkenstone and Erebor’s most faithful warrior,”_ it read. So this was Baggins’ guardian and gaoler, no wonder that someone wanted him out of the city, with such a bodyguard, anyone loving him would. He felt a faint disgust at the mere idea of letting that thing being near someone he cared for; did the monster even feel any emotion? For surely it couldn’t be entirely mechanical in spite of all the metal pieces which covered it, no engineer in the world was skilled – or insane – enough to imagine and craft that beast without the help of an organic basis. Yes, now Thomas understood why he was in Erebor, there was no way that Oakenshield could really love Baggins otherwise he wouldn’t _ever_ let that _slug_ near him.

“I can’t believe it was already ten years ago…” an elegantly dressed woman offered, only a few steps away from him. “It seems only be yesterday, to me. Oh, Mahal! Do you think he changed a lot during these past years, dear?”

Was she talking about Baggins? Thomas casually leaned back on the bench, trying to look only interested in his own concerns, but he listened very carefully the conversation between this woman and her husband, a man with an impressively trimmed moustache.

“Well, I don’t really know, my dear. He remained locked away in the statue for so long, he has never stepped out since the miracle.”

“He must have been feeling so lonely up there, with Smaug for only companion. Fortunately for him, this ordeal will soon be over.”

“Indeed, the Prophet should announce the return of the Arkenstone among us since his health improved.”

“Oh, Robert, I am just afraid that…” she tried to say, but words got caught in her throat as a strangled sob threatened to escape her. But she strained herself and her husband rubbed a soothing hand on her back.

“Nothing will happen to him this time,” he whispered confidently, a faint hint of emotion in his voice as well. “The Prophet won’t let him be the innocent victim of such cruelty any more. Besides, Mahal brought him back to us once and blessed him, if his beauty and kindness have not been stained by Thranduil’s vicious attempt, then The Lakemen have already lost.”

The man kissed tenderly the cheek of his wife then, they serenely resumed their walk, though her arm was still firmly hooking her husbands. Thorin scowled sombrely; he hadn’t wholly understood the exchange of the couple and that incomprehension was hazing him. What had happened ten years ago that still distraught the fair people of Erebor? It sounded so awful that it even concerned Thorin. Piercing the mysteries of that city was no part of his job, but somewhat, he couldn’t help it. He was already feeling himself growing fascinated by its lights and its darkness, but mostly by William Benedict Baggins. The sparkling light in his eyes – the burning flame of courage – flashed in his memory, he checked if he was all alone, before taking the photograph from his pocket.

“What has happened to you? What have they done to you?” he mumbled to the face frozen on the paper, like a shattered shard of time, stolen away from the eyes of the universe. He brushed slightly the light curls with the tips of his fingers and then stopped abruptly. What the hell was he doing? Was he stroking the picture of a man in the middle of the street? _“Get a hold of yourself, Thorin!”_ he thought angrily. _“You’re not supposed to care for the man. He is only a piece of merchandise, remember. Bring him unharmed to New-York, this is the only thing you should think about!”_ He quickly slipped the photograph back in his pocket, then tried in vain to chase the image of this face away from his mind. These dark eyes were haunting him, as well as what he could read in these two mirrors of his soul: the unbendable strength of his steely will, some kind of sadness, like the dull memory of a dear but lost home, the softness and generosity of his heart, and a deep humility. Maybe Thorin had judged him too quickly and only assumed that Baggins would be a snob because of his fancy cloths, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt a strange tenderness for this man he didn’t even know. And goodness, how he wanted to get to know William B. Baggins, how he wanted to call him his friend, call him William, or Will, or Bill, no matter what nickname he preferred.

It was unexplainable, he never felt this way before, never felt this urge to know someone, to discover, then learn everything about them: their habits and these small endearing gestures they make, what they like or dislike, what they are moved or touched by, what they aspire to. He found this unescapable pull both terrifying and exhilarating, because he was losing himself, he didn’t felt being the master of his own emotions, and he couldn’t bring himself to restrain himself and smother them before they turned into something way more perilous. It was bittersweet and delightful, like meeting accidentally a long lost friend whom we had almost forgotten.

And all of the sudden a terrible pain shot through his brain. He felt like his mind was fighting to recall him of something utterly important, vital, but something was pushing it back across the haze of pain which darkened his mind before he could grasp it. It was all overwhelming, his sight blurred a little and a shrill sound, like the rasping of nails on a blackboard, stabbed his eardrums and resounded in his skull. It might have lasted only a second then everything was back to normal, the pain had disappeared.

When Thomas emerged from this ocean of pain, he was leaning on a brick wall and was panting, he could feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and his heartbeat were still drumming in his ears, but he had lost what was almost near enough for him the seize. Thorin inhaled and exhaled deeply, and the world stopped swaying around him. He was now once again standing on his own two feet and he resumed his walk, but somehow the image of Baggins and the questions which tormented him never left him while he crossed charming little streets.

Then he began to hear again the sound of a gleeful and triumphing fanfare: the high trills of fifers blended with the glorious ringing of trumpets and trombones, while the low rumbles of tubas accompanied the drums and cymbals. It was a low and lazy music of a popular ball where honest people were dancing quietly, nothing alike the music of a conquering army proudly coming back from the battlefront, bringing home the flags of the defeated enemies, as a proof of their heroic deeds. A sour smile widened Thorin’s grim face; he remembered his time in the army, all those young and stupidly naïve men who were boasting about the ridiculous and pompous sharpness of their uniforms, of being allowed to carry a weapon. Their mothers would be so proud of them, if they came back home with all their limbs, of course.

Then, like a new instrument in the band, the noises of a crowd met Thomas’ ears, and he finally reached a wide crowded plaza, where people were indeed slowly dancing while musicians were playing on an over-decorated scaffold. He tried to repress the slightly ironical and ferocious smile still spreading on his face, everybody around him was smiling blissfully: nobody would notice his fake grin and the cynicism hidden behind that grimace. He was not laughing at the dancers, he was not that contemptuous, besides it would be forgetting that his own grand-parents had left the Netherlands to escape poverty. He had never forgotten or denied his origins, he would never laugh at simple people enjoying themselves. No, he was just finding all of this too perfect, too sweet, too pretty, it looked too alike a picture from a book.

And suddenly, all those blinding glimmers, the unbearably loud and chipper music, the echoing laughs, the greasy smell of sweets, peanuts and fried beignets which was floating in the fresh air, the children perched up on the shoulders of their fathers or hanging to the skirts of their mothers, a pleading look on their eyes and asking for a balloon, a toy or a ride of carousel, all of this felt so overwhelmingly artificial. It felt like a décor, and the people like actors to such an extent that Thomas even half expected to see a cardboard façade fall, revealing nothing but void.

Having quite enough of this, Thorin split the crowd and elbowed his way through the plaza, but as he was halfway to the other side, an amplified voice rang and covered every noise. It was the first time that Thorin had ever heard this voice, though he knew immediately who it belonged to. Oakenshield. Every sound had died now, except from the voice pouring from speakers hanged at every corner. Everyone stound still, silent, listening. Even time seemed to have suspended its erratic stream.

“Fifteen years ago, when Mahal appeared to me, as I was lost in despair, he said: “Adam Oakenshield, you know how greedy and cruel the human heart is, listen to my words and obey to my commands, for I am the one who crafted this world and its inhabitants: you shall carve a city in the roots of the world, a heaven for those disappointed by their kin and the vicissitudes of life, and I will offer to all of you the metals and the gems which slumber in the cold rocks. You shall lead these people to peace, prosperity and faith, you shall be the King Under the Mountain, and I will bestow upon you my grace.” I listened to the Great Craftsman and I felt the greatness of His design, and it was gladly and earnestly that I agreed, but something in the deepest of my soul was unsatisfied. So I asked him: “Lord, I will serve Thee, but I do not seek honours, neither do I crave for wealth. The only thing that I yearn for is love.” And he gave it to me. Erebor was barely finished that he sent me the Arkenstone. The first time my eyes laid on him, his ethereal beauty baffled me so much, that I thought that Mahal had sent me on of his Maia, and we were soon to discover that William B. Baggins, of all human who ever walked on this earth, is the nearest from the Maiar. No one in Erebor needs to be remembered of his gentleness, honesty and patience. Everyone witnessed his generosity and the bravery of his lionheart. He was the most precious of all the treasures of Erebor, cherished and admired by all. And when he was taken from us by Thranduil’s criminal hands, we thought that the glowing of the Arkenstone was extinguished. But Mahal gave us all a second chance. That is why today is a day of celebration and joy, because the light of hope still shines in the hands of William Benedict Baggins!”

Loud cheers welcomed the end of the speech, and thundering applauses filled the air and rippled in the cavernous halls. Some shouted Oakenshield or Baggins’ names, then the noises died and the fanfare resumed its rampageous music. Then Thomas slipped away from the crowd and found a peaceful shelter in a tight street between two high buildings. The sound of the festivities had died off and Thorin could finally enjoyed a bit of rest, away from the excitement and overwhelming feelings.

The terracotta bricks were pleasingly fresh against his damp skin and the speckles of light filtering through the leaves of a trees were swaying lazily on the neat cobblestone. Hearing Oakenshield’s voice had brought back the unexplainable boiling rage in the pit of his stomach, and when he had talked about William, Thorin had felt like he would burst in flames and fume like an erupting volcano. The passers-by must have felt the heat of his anger radiating from him, it must have felt like standing outside with the sun shining on their faces. Nevertheless, he had listened very carefully, committing the words into memory, he would enjoy recalling when he would be on his way to New York with William. Hearing him telling the people of Erebor about his love for the handsome prisoner of the tower had almost sounded obscene to Thomas. He had to use all the strength of his will to reject all the disgusting and revolting images which had flashed in his spirit, but it only fuelled the furnace of his hatred.

He had to do it, and quickly. He wanted to be done with this and leave Erebor. He felt in his very bones that the longer he stayed, the worst it would be for him. He made a few hesitant steps toward the other side of the street and finally he was back to himself and marched confidently, the heels of his shoes hitting the cobblestone pointedly. He turned at the end of the street and crossed an arched passage before reaching an iron gate closed by a heavy chain and a locker. However, the street seemed to continue on the other side, and Tomas could even descry a small square. What should he do? Shoot the locker and go on, like nothing had just happened? It really sounded like a terrible idea and Thorin’s judgment when it came to terrible idea was not the most accurate. Then what, he would not turn around and suffer the ordeal of the crowd a second time, he would rather hang himself to the nearest tree with his belt, and it was no overstatement: he couldn’t bring himself to endure Oakenshield’s propaganda singing on every tune his perfect stainless love for William.

Thomas scratched the cropped beard on his chin thoughtfully. The gate was not that high and the street was totally deserted, if he was swift enough, nobody would ever notice him climbing it. In fact, it was the perfect solution: simple, discrete, and fit, what could he ask for more? So he did it, he climbed it, almost crawled over it, looking like a spider dressed in a waistcoat with his long limbs. Once on the top of it, he jumped on the other side and landed on the stone of the pavement quite graciously. And no one stopped him, or did any embarrassing thing.

“Head?”

“Or tails?” curiously familiar voices said.

Thomas all but jumped, startled. Two young men had appeared seemingly from nowhere and where now standing in front of him, blocking the street.

They were so unlike each other: one was tall and lean with a tanned complexion, dark brown curly hairs neatly combed on one side, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief, while the other was shorter and paler, with fair hair equally combed on the side and a short moustache and goatee, some kind of sarcastic look floating on his blue eyes. But somhow, something seemed to bind them to each other, a faint link. The two of them were wearing the same fancy beige jacket accompanied by brown waistcoat, as green ties were tied around the rigid necks of their white shirts. Their outfits were completed by dark brown trousers and shiningly waxed shoes. But beyond their garments, they shared the same hint of a knowing smile, the same eccentricity he could guess just by merely looking at them.

The shortest of the two was arching an inquisitive eyebrow, as he held a silvery tray with one hand, the other behind his back, while the tallest was trapped between two blackboards hanged on his shoulders by suspenders. Thomas noticed quite incredulously that the blackboard was parted in two columns, one reading “Head” and the other “Tails”, but what was puzzling Thorin was the numerous lines traced in the column “Head” while “Tails” was desperately empty. What on earth did that mean? Was there not the same probability that a coin fell on its head or his tails?

“Head?” the tallest repeated quite impatiently.

“Or tails?” the other completed.

“Well, listen, I really have no time for this, just let me through, I have important businesses to handle and-” he began.

But the men glared at him so pointedly, almost sternly that he preferred stop himself and comply with their little experiment. The blond man threw him a coin that Thorin caught and took between his thumb and his index before holding it close to his eye and examining it attentively. There seemed to be to trick or any kind of treachery, the coin was visibly not ballasted.

“Alright: tails!” he uttered.

Thorin exhaled deeply before flipping the coin, which landed with a slight metallic clinging on the tray. Both of the men hunched over the coin expectantly, apparently very eager to discover the result of this simple game, but their smiles vanished almost in the instant, excitement replaced by furrowed brows, frowns and sceptical pouts. The blond man groaned, but nevertheless took a chalk stick from one of his pockets and traced almost reluctantly another line on the column “Head”.

“The more we do that, the more disappointing it is,” the brown-haired man complained to his companion as they lined against the wall, opening a way for Thomas. “I find it kind of depressing, you know. I really hate determinism.”

“Let’s keep going, brother. The odds are always victorious,” the other replied, gently patting his brother’s forearm.

Thomas blinked at them but passed by, nonetheless. _“Odd guys, waiting behind a closed gate to play “Head or tails” with strangers.”_ , he thought, but when he looked over his shoulder to see if they had took back their place in front of the iron gate, but they were gone. He froze and turned back, totally astonished. How could they have disappeared into thin air, just like this? There were no exit except of the way Thorin was striding on, and there was no way they could have climbed the gate the way he had and gone away that swiftly.

He was really beginning to be concerned about his own sanity, as he was seeing odder and odder things. Maybe he shouldn’t worry too much about it, something was telling him that this kind of uncanny phenomenon was nothing unusual in an underground city. So let him forget about this before it gave him a memorable headache.

He left the street and reached the square he had seen from the other side of the gate. It was not as peaceful as the little streets but it was still much quieter than the huge crowded plaza and the avenues. It was surrounded by beautiful buildings which were telling long about the wealth of their inhabitants and their pride of Ereborians, judging by façades of white stones, the high windows, the balconies and the flags sadly lacking the wind to wave. Many people from all kind of social ranks were hurrying through the square to an avenue, giggling exaltedly, some even shaking with excitement.

Thomas noticed a long and a bit flashy banderol suspended like an arch between the two buildings lining on each side of the avenue. _“Great annual tombola of Erebor”_ Thorin read aloud, quite blankly. Seriously, was that the source of all this excitement? All those people were thrilled because of a mere tombola? The first prize must be a diamond as big as Thorin fist, otherwise he was unable to see the point in such a popular exaltation. Well…It couldn’t hurt to go and give a quick look, it might even be entertaining, and if he was not delighted by the simple joy of these humble people, he could still get a good disabused laugh at himself for being unable to enjoy himself.

So Thorin followed the flow of people without reading the end of the text printed on the banderol: _“With the special participation of Benjamin Oswald Fur”_.


End file.
